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arsnovacadenza · 4 years

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Jean x Napoleon fanfic - if you hate the sunlight, come meet me in the dark

Pairing: Napoleon Bonaparte x Jean d'Arc from Ikemen Vampire, MxM

Word count: 1602 (!!)

Rating : T (mentions of sex without actual smut)

Prompt: Morning after, Friends with benefits, Fluff,

A follow-up piece from this fic

Jean woke up to strong arms wrapping around his waist. Sunlight was already pouring in through above, illuminating the otherwise dull bedroom.

He stared at the wall across the bed as he listened to Napoleon's soft snores.

Why is he still here?

They had an unspoken agreement that Napoleon would slip out of bed before dawn and back to his room (to sleep some more, Jean presumed). Whether or not Napoleon was aware that Jean had been awake during those times, it never mattered. There was no room for goodbyes nor lingering gazes.

Even a final, chaste kiss was a luxury both could not afford.

With Napoleon out cold, Jean couldn't help but lean back into the warmth of his chest. The jacket that Napoleon wore sometimes tricked Jean into thinking that his shoulders weren't any broader than his. Oh, how wrong he was.

Any woman would readily fall into his embrace and stay caged there. Jean was no woman, but there was a tiny bit of satisfaction knowing that he had momentarily stolen the chance away from those ladies.

Before Napoleon decides to start his new life properly with a girl, that is.

Jean nearly followed that train of thought until Napoleon stirred and pulled him tighter against him. The man pressed his lips softly on Jean's shoulder.

Enough already.

Jean rolled on his back, narrowly avoiding bumping into Napoleon's forehead. He pressed his fingers lightly on the waking man's chest and urged him to give some space. Seeing that Napoleon refused to make a move, Jean cleared his (very sore) throat and boldly looked at Napoleon.

"Shouldn't you be back in your room already?"

Napoleon parried the question away with a well-timed finger on Jean's lips. "Quiet," he grumbled. "Imma just sleep some more, anyway."

Bewildered, Jean watched as the man rolled away from him, taking the blankets along and leaving Jean exposed to the cold morning air. The gall! Jean was ready to wrestle the former emperor awake if he had to.

"Why not just sleep in your room?" Jean hissed, "What if they panic?"

"Don't care. 's still time to sleep until breakfast," Napoleon grumbled, refusing to budge even as Jean tugged at the blankets.

"They're going to look all over the place."

"Let them look, then," Napoleon blindly batted Jean's hand away from his shoulder. "They donna have to know."

Defeated, Jean let out a sigh and pulled himself to sit up against the bedframe. The steel felt cold on his back, especially compared to the warmer skin of his companion earlier. "What if they find out?" Jean whispered with his face buried in his hands.

He heard the rustle of sheets beside him. "So be it," Napoleon answered, "Then I won't have to kiss a random person each morning."

Jean felt intense heat crawling onto his cheeks and ears. Whether it was due to rage at Napoleon's indifferent words or jealousy, he didn't want to know. There was just so much happening this early already.

"That's on you, vieillard," Jean spat with no heat, "No sane man wakes up from slumber to kiss the nearest person around. You're lucky you're handsome."

It didn't escape Jean that he had mistakenly called Napoleon handsome. But it was a fact. Being a former emperor and a charmer, anybody would quickly forgive him after getting a taste of that little quirk of his. Especially Sebastian. It was easy for him to imagine Sebastian falling on weak knees after Napoleon graced him with a kiss the first time.

Somewhat luckily for Jean back then, nobody has ever pushed him to into filling in that particular morning duty either. Unless he offered to do it himself, they'd never go far out of their way to involve him. It was either his stoic demeanor or their impression of him as a chaste, devout worshipper of God. Or maybe they didn't see him as interested enough in Napoleon to do the job.

But now that Napoleon himself had taken him up as a lover, Jean wondered if his desire to have those morning kisses all to himself wasn't all too unnatural.

"Sebastian never seems to mind,"

Jean looked at Napoleon, who now laid on his side with emerald eyes sparkling with obvious lust at the sight of Jean. Men, Jean thought, biting the inside of his cheek.

But Napoleon only smirked wider, adding to Jean's growing vexation. The charismatic leader sure knew how to push a man's buttons.

“Ah, but if were to allow Sebastian to continue kissing me awake, somebody would be sad, non?"

Jean shot him a look of mock distaste. "Handling you every night is exhausting enough, and now you want me to fill in the mornings too? Not to mention, they're going to find out I'm your kept man. Can you imagine Arthur pestering me about it?"

"Then I'll be there to save you," Napoleon covered Jean's outstretched legs with the blanket. "We're all old men reborn in healthier, fairer bodies. Why not make the most of our situation? No care for the outside world, no pressure to wed a total stranger at the behest of our families..." Napoleon suddenly trailed off. "Well, at least we're not Leonardo and Comte. I heard Sebastian talk about Comte urging Leonardo to wed some noble lady vampire."

"But if you ask me, they're as good as married," Napoleon chuckled, "Without Leonardo's presence, I can't imagine Comte running the household on his own. He establishes order within the mansion, but I can see how he'd need someone to keep us tightly knit together, like a family should.”

Family, friends, lovers.

Jean never dreamed of his previous life in Domrémy —of his mother and father, of his sister, of his loyal brothers. He waved away memories of d'Alencon and Dunois on their horseback, poking fun at Jean flustering at their bawdy songs as they rode back to camp.

He willed himself to sleep every time Gilles emerged, his soft visage illuminated by the bonfire as he invited Jean to sit and drink warm honey water together.

The mansion was a different universe altogether. Jean found no traces of his parents in Leonardo or— God forbid —Comte. But friends?

His world had never been this loud, with the mischievous Arthur and Dazai and the confusing dualism of the Van Gogh brothers. Jean once thought he found some bits of himself in the lumbering Isaac. But then, his notions were dispelled upon seeing the quiet genius' contentment in the company of the troublemaking duo.

Jean eventually found himself a friend in the ostensibly distant Mozart. As time went out, he learned to see past their similarities and found that Mozart mas a much mature and experienced man. He was a friend who offered quiet solace and kind words of encouragement when Jean was at his lowest, but he was also unafraid of showing his stern, mature side when the situation called.

Through thick and thin, through storms and sunny days, Jean would always feel Mozart's hand on his back, gently pushing him forward. The composer would never admit it, but he and Jean both knew they'd always pray for each other's happiness.

If Jean had Mozart, Isaac had Napoleon, a strange man everybody regarded as their brother (and idol, in Sebastian's case).

At first, it stirred something in him when he learned about another French soldier who fought for the very same nation and people he protected. He was too absorbed in himself to know about the details, but there was something recognizable in the way the rumored former Emperor carried himself.

Within the brilliant green of Napoleon's eyes, burned an indomitable spirit as he first spoke to Jean: Bonjour, I am Napoleon Bonaparte, and I have longed to meet the man who fought for my Fatherland.

Jean came to hate the words of exaltation that the people sent his way —felt undeserving of them, even. Yet all his self-doubt momentarily dissolved the moment Napoleon pressed a fervent kiss on the back of his hand.

Jean blushed and even deeper shade of red as he realized the state they were in now. His mind could reel back forever to their previous encounters, but Jean would later save that for later. Right now, the brilliant man he used to admire from the shadows is naked beside him, lethargically yawning as if he's back in his bed.

Jean didn't even protest when Napoleon pulled on his arm, insisting that Jean lie back down beside him. The man casually adjusted the blanket on him, patting him down like a mother to her baby.

"Can't stand seeing you sit up against that cold steel." Napoleon pulled the bundle of Jean closer. "Here. Let me warm you up. Don't fight. You're wasting precious time to sleep."

Jean found himself unable to fight himself free from Napoleon's cursed strength. He was the Lesser Vampire for God's sake! "Don't make me go along with your sleeping habits, that's sloth."

Jean was losing the battle. Who knew an intense session face-to-face lovemaking could carry them this far? He shouldn't let Napoleon coddle him like a wife, Goddammit!

"Be careful. Move again, and you’re going to arouse me.”

Jean had never been this determined to rip another man's limbs off.

"Good. Stay still." Napoleon commanded. "You're going to be here when I'm awake."

"And kiss you while we're at it?"

"Oh, I can't wait to wake up with your lips on mine." Napoleon snuggled against Jean's neck. "Maybe you can get creative and wake me with your mouth on other parts."

Jean elbowed him hard.

@weird-profiterole, @hokkaido-the-hellbeast @kasu-gay-ama @batteryrose ‘Tis done.

#ikemen vampire #ikevam fanfic #ikevam bl #jeanpoleon #ikevamp napoleon #ikevamp jean #riri tries ikevam

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skeleton-richard · 4 years

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“DJ Bastard”

- @fade-steppin on Jean, Count of Dunois

#bastard of orleans #dunois #jean de dunois #how do you tag him #my new tag for him is dj bastard

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princevulgar · 5 years

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La Pucelle Du Diable

I’ve never uploaded anything on here, and I figured I’d put up a writing assignment I did for a final project in college that I’m actually really proud of. I’m still debating on whether or not continuing it since I feel like I already had the entire plot figured out, but obviously had to cut it way down for my project. Hope you few who read it enjoy it as much as I did writing it. This is a historical piece with a twist of fiction

How does one do good in this world when it is so full of chaos? How does one do good when it could all be for nothing? How does one carry such a heavy responsibility? A burden…it is questions such as these that fill the empty cavern that has now become my mind. A place that no longer feels like my own. No. Not anymore. I lost that long ago.

Such a distant memory now. I hardly remember how the warm sun shone down upon me, kissing my skin ever so gently with its warm embrace. How the cool breeze of the winds would dance across our open fields, nourishing our land with seeds, so that we would receive a beautiful and healthy harvest; a gift from our Lord in the sky. But that all came to an end. The very image shattering to pieces before me like an old withered mirror.

I could see myself in those pieces of a faded memory. Pure, yet broken. But it was not just I, within those shards of glass. Something else breathed within them, something that moved through my eyes until it engulfed my green irises like the fires I’ve seen, oh so, many times taking the lives of my people and the lands they’ve walked upon. I stared back at my broken reflection long and hard, unmoving and afraid no more, for those now black and hellish eyes were no longer mine, but his. Abigor.

~ ~ ~

“-anduer. Commandeur?” My head turned at that strange title, my attention drawn away from the view of an old crushed field. The grass was no longer green, but instead beaten to mud and muck by the steps of my soldiers. As I looked over, I saw a man, or perhaps a boy even from his age, with a plate of food in his hands. Though he looked young, the scars and wear across his face had aged him. Dirt covered him from head to toe, his armor denied of the sun’s rays due to the mud that was smeared across it.

I smiled at him, reaching up to flick off a few pebbles of dirt that had nestled within his brown hair, “Please, do not give me a title for which I have not earned. My name is, Jeanne. As for you, you are?”

For a moment he looked flustered, not expecting that type of response at all, “Claude, Comm-“ he paused for a moment, “Jeanne. My name is, Claude.”

I smiled again, then looked at the small wooden plate he held. On it was a small bread bun with a block of cheese sitting right next to it.

Noticing my gaze, he quickly held it out to me, “Please, eat.” I looked him over once more before gingerly taking the plate into my own hands, thanking him. With a single smile, he turned and left, returning back to his group of friends. A group lost amongst the many other groups of soldiers that sat idly nearby. I took a bite of the bread I was given, suddenly feeling a wave of nostalgia course through the entirety of my small body. Even if it tasted stale, a part of me was taken back to my home in Domremy. Back to the farm lands in which I grew up in.

“Finally eating now, eh?” The memories instantly faded as a voice sliced right through them.

An older man, who looked much more aged than Claude, and with darker hair, stood before me. He smiled down towards me, through his salt and pepper features, though it looked more forced than it should’ve been. “It’d do us no good if the maid died from starving herself before she even set foot on the battlefield.” He mocked with a hard laugh.

I stared up at him, unbothered by his snark comment. I was used to it by now. John the Bastard they called him. The Count of Dunois, and the last defender of the city, Orleans. He made the rules around here, and I was to take orders from him. Although, I just met him, it was clear that he wanted nothing to do with me. “I was merely waiting for my share. I had no intentions of refusing any type of sustenance.”

What I had said clearly offended him, although I’m not sure how. The smile he had forced quickly turned into a scowl, “My god, woman. Call it for what it is! Food! Not this sustenance shit!” he nearly spat before pinching the bridge of his nose, “I swear, sometimes you don’t even sound human.”

I grew puzzled by that last statement, but I quickly pushed it aside before hardening my gaze towards him, “I ask you refrain from such obscene language, John. I honestly wonder why you resort to such ill words.”

He laughed again, this time through his hand before letting it drop to his side, “And I wonder why you still insist on dressing as a man. Guess we’ll never know.” With that he left, back to his tent I assumed. A hand unconsciously reached up to touch the few blonde strands of hair that hung over my face. I had tied my golden locks into a tight bun with the exception of a few that refused to stay up. My hand fell to my chest which wore a light piece of leather that waited for the smooth and shining armor that went over it.

As he walked away and disappeared into his tent, his words stuck with me like an arrow to my chest. Heavy, and painful. What did he mean by not sounding human? I am human! My body trembled at the emotions that spiraled out of control within me, then before I knew it, I had stormed off. The small plate of food left behind in my place.

It was a small clearing, but it was far enough from eyes that would grow suspicious. I knelt down, my knees instantly sinking into the small soft patch of grass beneath me. I clasped my hands together and bowed my head letting my lids fall closed. Though I have wandered far off, away from all the soldiers, away from John, if any had followed, all they would see would be a small girl praying to her lord.

As soon as my eyes had shut, I breathed out a calm breath. I felt something inside me shift and leave. My eyes opened, and I could see the clearing around me again. The thin trees that looked like they would fall at any second, the ground that was turned over, no longer a beautiful blanket of green. My eyes then fell upon myself, kneeling perfectly still on the ground. I wonder, was I always so small?

“You called for me?”

My ‘body’ immediately whipped around to the sound of a soothing, yet haunting voice. Not far off stood a man. From where I was, he looked like a shadow, a very tall looming shadow whose entire body looked to be covered in a cloak like the color of the night sky. A starless one. His hair was also as black as night and I still did not know where it ended. All I could see and pull apart from his body was his face, which looked as pale as a corpse, and two curved objects protruding from his head that looked they were nearly able to touch. When I first saw it, I thought they looked similar to a halo, but his had been broken in two. They were a set of horns, as I’ve come to admit.

Once again, my gaze was stern as I stared into his own black eyes, refusing to show any fear. The only color I could see in them was the gold irises that glowed and burned into my own. I took in another breath, then opened my mouth, “Yes,” my lips shut as I struggled to find words, “Human…I am still human. Right, Abigor?”

Abigor. My saint, my angel. So I have said when asked about my visions, or the voices I’ve heard. I would’ve been executed immediately for following a child of Satan, for heresy, and this would’ve all been over much sooner. But I couldn’t do that. Abigor told me so. It was not my time as of yet, and if I did not follow through with this prophecy he spoke of, the future of my people and my family would be grim. I was the only one who could fulfill his mission. He would help me, but in return, I would have to give up something of my own. Something precious.

In the blink of an eye, the shadow of a man was suddenly right in front of me. My vision obscured for a second from his dark body towering over my own. As I looked up, I felt a chill run down my spine. He was smiling, but it was anything but friendly. I felt something cold touch my cheek and as I turned my attention towards it, I saw a large, black, clawed hand. I’ve come to realize that this man, this monster, did not have human appendages. His hands were not frail like a humans’, nor did they have fingers like one. They just looked like long and sharp charred claws. A beast from hell. I did not want to think of what the rest of his body looked like. I hushed that curiosity long ago. “What makes you ask such a question my little maiden?”

The large claw moved to caress my skin, and I let it, unphased by this demon’s touch no longer. “I may appear human, but are my actions still such?” Like a lost child, I looked to my mother for answers, only that this thing was not my mother, nor my father, not my brother, my sister, not my anything.

I knew he could read me. Read my mind and body like an open book. His smile had cracked, “Are you concerned with what you had said to the Bastard?”

I nodded, gently pushing aside the claw which longed to tear into my skin. “Yes. I- for a moment, I sounded like-“

“Me.” He quickly interjected, his smile unwavered.

I nodded once more, my heart throbbing from his answer. “Sustenance…that’s what you called me.”

Abigor chuckled, his body moving away from mine. I watched him move, almost glide to where my actual body knelt. Ironically enough, I had found out through prayer was the only way I could speak with Abigor face-to-face. My soul, as he had put, would leave my shell of a body during these times. I had done this many times as a child. During prayer, I would hear a voice and would follow it, but never did I know that I was leaving my body. I always thought it was a dream. An innocent dream. So, when I saw my body I would ‘wake up’ and would be back within it.

“That was long ago my little maiden. That word holds no meaning to me anymore.” Again, his clawed hand moved, shifting the cloak around his body as if he were cutting through smoke. The hand came to lay atop of my kneeling body’s head. “You are something far more important.” He retracted his hand, the appendage disappearing completely when it returned to his side, “Although, if you’d like, I could get rid of those for you.”

For a moment, my body froze, and a lump formed in my throat. It felt like it took all my strength, but I managed to take a step back. My eyes locked with his. I knew what he meant, and I hated the very idea of it.

“Yes. That.”

I shook my head, “No. If anything, my emotions are what makes me human. I will not let you have that. Not while I still walk on this earthly soil.” I released a shaky breath, one I didn’t know I was holding, “Please. Let me be selfish this once and ask you to leave my emotions be…please.” Before I knew it, my cheeks were warm and wet. Tears? When had I started crying? “You have my word on following through with this prophecy of yours…and you have my soul, but please, leave my emotions be.”

I blinked, the tears falling endlessly, and in that moment Abigor was at my side yet again, only this time I was in his arms. As cold as they were, and as empty as he felt, it was the first time where I was being comforted. I let those long dark claws embrace my small body for however long he wished.

I could hear his voice above me when he spoke, and I could feel the emptiness in his words, “But of course, my little maiden. I will grant you this wish of yours.” He pulled away, and I was left alone once more. A part of me wanted to stay in his arms, keep that comfort, however empty it was, and the other part of me wanted to run as far away as I could from him. I did not know how to feel around this demon anymore.

“Oh, my dear child. You make it sound as if all your actions, all your promises are going to be in vain. Did you forget just how many lives you are going to spare? How much you are going to help your people accomplish?” he smiled, almost tauntingly, “The future you will secure for your grandchildren-“ I looked away at the last part. “Oh apologies, I meant your nieces and nephews.”

I had taken a vow of chastity when I had gone back home from the garrison in Vancouleur. My purity, along with my will and soul, was his. “You truly do not know just how big of an impact you will make in the future because of all this. You will be known throughout history as one of the greatest heroines, St. Jeanne d’ Arc.”

My eyes did not search for his. I kept my gaze locked elsewhere. I did not care for this title, nor did I care for becoming infamous. The only thing that put me at ease was the fact that my people would be free, that my family would be safe, and that their generations would live on.

“Now. You must leave.”

My brows furrowed at this as I finally turned to him, “Why so suddenly?”

“Your enemies. They’re on the move.”

My eyes went wide as I wiped away the few remaining tears, “The English?”

Abigor simply nodded, “Yes. You leave, now.”

Wait, everything was happening way too fast now. It feels like I barely reached Orleans, and that was only traveling. I had yet to fight anything, let alone go to war, “Now? But-“ My head felt like it was spinning suddenly. I couldn’t find words.

Abigor could see my discomfort. Feel it even. “I have aided you this far, have I not?”

“Yes, but Abigor, this is war.”

I had barely enough time to finish my sentence before he spoke up, “Precisely what you were born for.” I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat refusing to leave. “Show no fear, nor hesitation, and I shall be there to guide you. Now go before you miss this chance.”

One second Abigor was in front of me, the next he was gone. I looked all around only to be brought back by the strange feeling of numbness in my legs. I stood up, as wobbly as I was, and forced the blood to flow back into my legs. I was back in my own body, and I had to move fast from what Abigor had said.

I wanted to show fear, I wanted to hesitate, but it felt as if my body had a mind of its own when I turned around and ran back to the camp. I had to move now. I couldn’t waste any time. I was going to get through this. I was going to lift the siege on Orleans and take my Dauphin to Reims to claim his throne, because no matter how much I hated it, I trusted Abigor’s words. He would not lead me astray. As much as I needed him to help me accomplish this prophecy, it had become clear to me that he needed me just as much. For what, I did not know, but soon I would find out.

After my prayer with Abigor, I ran back to camp demanding to speak with John. I told him about my vision with my saint. How he had said that we needed to attack that very day. I’m not sure exactly what I had said, or how I looked, but John the Bastard did not argue against me that day. Instead he felt vigor and confidence in my words. He rallied the men up, and had given me control over more than half of them. The soldiers had armed themselves, grabbing their weapons, and putting on their heavy armor. I too was given a set of armor, one small enough for my body. Though I carried a sword on my belt, I felt a stronger pull to a long metal pole with a banner flowing freely atop of it. It was on that day that I had decided for myself for once. I was going to take that banner, and carry it all the way to Reims, through battle and all.

The next four days felt like a blur to me. It felt like it all happened so quickly, yet I was able to remember every detail of it. I could remember how my fear had shifted within me, and turned into something livelier. Excitement? No. I do not wish to think I felt something so positive when lives were being taken. But there was something there, something that stirred inside me. I felt strength and sureness that I would have never recognized as my own. And I exuded a courage that nearly terrified me. In one of those days, I was wounded. An arrow shot straight through my leg, and a heavy piece of stone had been thrown at my head. Yet, I felt nothing. I did not slow down. I couldn’t. I refused. Apparently, these were considered heroic actions. Heroic to some, nearly demonic to others. My behavior, so to speak, had gone unnoticed by my men, along with the English infantry. My comrades, my soldiers, became lions from my fearlessness, and the English began to retreat because of it.

What was four days felt like an eternity to me, but by the 7th of May at dawn, the siege at Orleans had finally been lifted, and an obstacle in my prophecy had been overcome.

Reims was not so far out of reach now, and soon I would guide my Dauphin to his rightful throne. I would pave the way for him, for his crown. I would save my people and free my homeland. I would accomplish all of this, because I knew that Abigor would be with me, guiding me, every step of the way.

#Joan of arc #demons #historical fiction #original piece #submission #do not repost only reblog plz #first submission ever on tumblr yaaaaay!

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princess-of-france · 5 years

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Charles returns home from England and sees Margeurite for the first time since she was nine and it turns out she took over the role of count(ess) of Vertus after their brother died and she and Dunois have been bravely representing the house of Orléans and part of him can't believe this is his baby sister Maggie but the other part of him totally always knew she could do it.

ALL OF THIS, YES

When Charles first sees Marguerite at the end of the hallway, he stops dead in his tracks because Valentina is dead, there is no Valentina, why is Valentina here? Maybe all those years in prison really did break down his mind. Hallucinating about his long-deceased mother seems like it would be a benchmark of insanity...

But then the statuesque woman at the end of the hall, dressed head to toe in cascading green silk, her dark hairline glittering with jewels, sees him. She stops dead, screams, drops the parchment in her arms, lifts up her skirts, and begins to run. Just before the Countess of Vertus launches herself into Charles’ arms, he catches the briefest glimpse of her nose: straight, long, rather pointy. His father’s nose...

Maggie buries her face in her big brother’s neck and Charles begins to cry. He’s home.

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books0977 · 5 years

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The Sorceress of Paris: being the Chronicle of Jean Louis Charles Count de Dunois. P. H. Ditchfield. London: Sampson Low, Marston, & Company Limited, n.d. [1896]. Title page and cover design by Anthony Fox. First edition.

Novel about French nobles who attempt to assassinate Cardinal Richelieu. Not fantastic, although the "sorceress" Susanne has occult powers, including second sight. She is a white witch who pays dearly for the use of her gift.

#The Sorceress of Paris #P. H. Ditchfield #first edition #Anthony Fox

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malvoliowithin · 6 years

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Fandom: the Histories as a whole?

character i first fell in love with; When I first read the Henry IV plays I loved Mortimer, so Mortimer.

ultimate favorite character; Dicky my boy

favorite female character; Anne Neville or Isabelle of Valois even though she technically wasn’t Isabelle of Valois

favorite male character: YOU KNOW

least favorite female character; Um idk maybe like ‘minor servingwoman #4′ or something. Or Doll Tearsheet she didn’t do a heck of a lot for me although I didn’t dislike her she was just kinda whatever

least favorite male character; Henry VIII if he counts

ultimate OTP; Wat

favorite m/m ship; I like Orleans/d’Albret even though it’s a crackship but so is Richard/Buckingham and you know what sometimes if you want to ship random Shakespeare characters you gotta be willing to crackship.favorite f/f ship; I don’t think a lot of female characters interact who are shippable in a sense but I personally think Elizabeth Woodville and Margaret Beaufort would be the ultimate power couple. That’s just me though.

favorite m/f ship; Katespur, Henry V/Catherine, Henry VI and Margaret just cause Henry VI is a sweetheart and I like the thought of Margaret actually caring for him and I’m trash shut up

BROTP(s); YORKSQUAD et al. but I’m gonna cut it short so I don’t take up a million lines. (Hotspur and Mortimer)... (Jeanne and Dunois)

NOTP; I don’t know right now, I’m sure I have one but can I think of it? Not right this second, sadly.

most aesthetically pleasing character; Richard III obvs (I’m kidding it’s Dicky 2)

character you’d totally hug; Henry VI who wouldn’t hug Henry VI?

character you’d totally date; Mortimer

overall opinion of the show/game/book/etc; The histories are really good and almost every single one is super underrated, so please give them a shot if’n you want a classy text that’s about action, romance, life and death. And penis jokes.

And murder

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scotianostra · 1 year

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February 12th 1429 saw the Battle of thee Herrings, also called the Battle of Rouvray

Commanded by Sir John Fastolf, a convoy of as many as 300 wagons was carrying supplies for the English besiegers of Orleans when it was attacked near the town of Rouvray by the French and their Scottish allies.

Deploying his wagons as an improvised fortification, Fastolf fought off the enemy and eventually drove them from the field. The battle owes its unusual name to the fact that the supplies being carried by the convoy included not just cannonballs, arrows and crossbow bolts but also a large number of barrels of herrings – particularly important as Lent was approaching, a time when the soldiers would have been forbidden from eating meat.

Over eager to set to the Auld Enemty, the 400-strong Scottish infantry, contrary to the orders of the Count of Clermont went on the attack against the English formation. This,forced the premature ending of the artillery bombardment for fear of striking their own forces. The Scots were not well protected by armour and great damage was inflicted on them by the English archers and crossbowmen who were shooting from behind the protection of their wagon fort.

At this point, the English, seeing that the remaining French forces were slow to join the Scots in the attack decided to go on a counterattack. They struck the rear and flanks of the disorganised French/Scottish forces and put them to flight. According to contemporary accounts the French/Scots army lost about 400 men including Sir John Stewart. Among the wounded was Jean de Dunois, known also as Bastard of Orléans, who barely escaped with his life and who would later play such a crucial role, along with Joan of Arc, in the lifting of the siege of Orléans and the French Loire campaign which followed.

The pics include illustrations of the battle and coat of arms of John Stewart, featuring the Fleur-de-Lis, he was buried in the Sainte-Croix Cathedral, Orléans.Some sources give the 13th as the date of the battle.

Some sources give the 13th as the date of the battle.

#Scotland #scottish #France #England #100 year war #history

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jesus-otaku · 6 years

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Title: La Pucelle et la Coccinelle (Part 7)

Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug

Word count: 5089

This is the chapter that killed me. Fight scenes are always terrible but medieval fight scenes are even worse.

She had never had cause to doubt her ability to protect her master before...

At the Burgundy Gate as Joan rode out to meet Dunois' forces, she came to a sudden halt. A soldier was being carried back into the city, groaning, by two other men. He had clearly been in the thick of the battle. His armor was slick with blood, and there was a hideous gash that ran the length of his face from his temple down to his jaw on the left side, bleeding heavily. He was limp in the men's arms—he had probably passed out from blood loss. Tikki was willing to bet that even if he received some form of medical treatment, he wouldn't survive the night.

“Who is this man?” Joan asked the men in a trembling voice.

“A Frenchman,” one of them replied, readjusting his grip on the soldier's blood-slicked pauldrons.

Tikki felt, through the armor, a shiver run over Joan's body. “I never see the blood of Frenchmen without my hair rising on my head.” And she crossed herself.

The carnage only got worse as they went on. More groups passed, with wounded and dying men being carried back to Orleans, and when they neared Saint Loup, the ground began to be littered with bodies. Dead eyes stared, lifeless and unseeing, at Joan and Jean as they rode past. The grass was dark with blood that glimmered wetly under the light of the moon. A single racked sob escaped Joan, but she wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of one armored hand and kept riding.

The fighting was the worst at Saint Loup—the French were being forced to pull back, pressed away by the English defenses. Joan let out a long breath and then raised her banner high.

The effect was nothing short of miraculous. All at once, a deafening cheer rose up from the French, and they surged forward against the English. The defenses around the fortress began to crumple like paper. Joan stirred her horse back into a gallop and rode forward to join her men.

The next three hours passed in a sort of blurred whirlwind. The stench of sweat and blood hung heavy in the air, and Tikki was certain her ears would be clanging with the echoes of swords clashing for weeks. Within a few minutes of Joan's arrival, the English fell back to the bell tower in Saint Loup to salvage what they could of their defenses. They held out admirably long, all things considered. But when the bell tower was finally claimed by the French, it was a massacre. Those who weren't killed were taken prisoner, only forty in number of the more than one hundred and fifty men originally in the garrison.

And Joan cried.

Friar Pasquerel stood by her side while she wept. He seemed to know that she didn't want comfort, and said nothing, only waited.

“They died without confessing,” Joan finally managed to choke out. “Father, their souls…” She dropped to her knees. “Please, Father, let me confess.”

He kneeled down in front of her with a sorrowful smile. “Of course, my dear. In nomine Patrii, et Filii, et Spiritu Sancti…”

That was the first and only time Tikki was present for one of Joan's confessions, and the raw grief and agony she displayed over her sins was more than enough to keep Tikki from ever wanting to overhear her confession again.

When Friar Pasquerel had concluded the prayers of absolution and Joan had wiped the last of her tears from her face, she gripped his shoulder tightly. “Father, please publicly advise all the soldiers to confess their sins and to give thanks to the King of Heaven for our victory today. Caution them that if they do not, I will withdraw myself from their society. But whatever they may do, I promise you that within five days, the siege on the city of Orleans shall be lifted.”

Battle was suspended the next day—it was the Feast of the Ascension, Joan explained to Tikki when she asked, which meant that as a holy day there was to be no fighting. She took the opportunity to write another letter to the English, and had an archer send it by arrow with the announcement “read, it is news!” Its reception by the English was not a kind one. After a delay in which Tikki could only imagine they were reading the letter amongst themselves, mocking shouts of “it's news from the whore of the Armagnacs!” rose up from the English fortresses. Joan didn't seem to take their response well. She spent the next half hour or so crying and praying.

That evening, the commanders updated Joan on their plans for the next day. Or at least, for part of their plans. They refused to tell her everything. Dunois tried to cover up with a vague explanation of the rest of their plan, and Joan seemed satisfied, but Tikki could sense her disappointment in them. She was hurt that they didn't seem to think she could keep a secret. Despite the commanders' determination to keep Joan in the dark, she took her place at the head of the army with La Hire the next day as if their secrecy hadn't offended her in the slightest.

Her presence, with her banner, proved again to be an inspiring force for the French. They took not only the church of St. Jean-le-Blanc that day, but also the Augustinian monastery it flanked. Les Tourelles, the most important of the fortresses, was almost within their reach. Joan camped with her men in the field surrounding the fortress that night.

One of the commanders came to her after dinner. “Joan, I and the other commanding officers have held council, and we have elected to pull back to the city for the evening while we await reinforcements. As a precaution.”

“You have been in your council,” Joan replied, “and I in mine; and know that the council of my Lord will be carried out and prevail, and this council will perish.” The commander blinked, looking taken aback, and probably would have said something if she hadn't then turned to Friar Pasquerel at her side and said, “Get up tomorrow early in the morning, and earlier than you did today, and do the best that you can.” Her fingers crept under the hem of her doublet to nudge Tikki, a warning that she needed to take note of what Joan was saying as well. “Always stay near me, for tomorrow I will have much to do and more than I ever had, and tomorrow blood will leave my body above the breast.”

Tikki paled. Joan was going to be injured? Tomorrow? How? Granted, she had made mention of it to Tikki on occasion in the past, but had never given a specific date. Tikki had thought she was just being paranoid about something that was the norm on the battlefield. She hadn't realized it was meant to be an actual prediction.

“If you think you're going to be injured tomorrow, then maybe you should consider using your Lucky Charm when it happens,” she suggested when they were alone and Joan was preparing for bed. “It will enable you to repair the damage done.”

“I will not.” Joan tightened the last piece of her armor back into place—she had decided to sleep in her armor again tonight as an added measure of security. She was getting better at putting it on without help.

“But Joan—”

“I told you I would not use the Lucky Charm or any of your powers of creation, Tikki,” Joan interrupted firmly. She caught herself then, obviously realizing she was speaking too harshly. Her expression became apologetic. “I'm sorry. But you must trust me. Everything I am doing is by the will of God. Even after I am injured, I will continue to lead my men as I am meant to do.”

Tikki frowned. She had come to respect Joan a great deal—she was easily the strongest, most resilient seventeen-year-old Tikki had ever met—but something told her that Joan didn't realize just how painful a wound on the battlefield could be. Especially in heavy plate armor. Joan would be lucky to join the fight again at all if she were to be injured, let alone lead the troops.

But Joan was technically her master, even if Tikki had trouble thinking of her as such, and so she held her tongue.

Their attack against Les Tourelles was launched at dawn. The commanders had stationed their men at numerous points around the palisade, and the troops surged forward at the signal seemingly without any fear. Whatever English troops were in the fortress had not prepared well for the assault. Scaling ladders were propped against the sides of the towers without much difficulty. It was only once soldiers began to scale the ladders that any strong resistance was met. Not long after their assault was fully underway, screams pierced the air as men were knocked from the tops of the ladders and those on the ground were wounded by archers. The coppery stench of blood was overpowering. Joan herself was positioned on the ground where her army was thickest, with her banner raised high. She didn't so much as touch the sword at her side. Friar Pasquerel, next to her as she had requested, kept his eye on her as she shouted encouragement to the men.

“Do not lose hope!” she yelled over the sharp cracks of cannonfire and clanging of weapons. “God is with us! He has promised us a great victory; we shall not leave Les Tourelles this day without it!”

Another man fell, not far away, with a sickening, ringing thud as his body hit the ground. He didn't get back up. The soldiers around him scattered to the sides for a moment, before swarming back in around the ladder he had fallen from. His body was hauled off by two squires to clear space for those trying to ascend.

“Forward!” Joan urged. “The fortress will soon be ours!”

She continued to shout similar things to her men for the next couple of hours, keeping her banner raised. And though the French fought just as fearlessly as they had on the first day of battle—perhaps even more so—they didn't seem to be making much headway. Tikki wondered if Joan's “counsel” might have been wrong about their predicted victory. Or if Joan's counsel might just be the invention of her own mind.

Then one of the scaling ladders was pushed back from the tower wall and fell to the ground. Soldiers scrambled to put it back into place. Joan noticed, and hurriedly dismounted to help. “All together, on a count of three,” she instructed them. “One, two—”

That was when the arrow struck.

It seemed to come out of nowhere, though Tikki knew it must have come from one of the English archers up above. She had never had cause to doubt her ability to protect her master before, trusting herself to provide an impenetrable defense, but the arrow struck right between two of the plates in Joan's armor, in the small space where her neck met her shoulder. Joan was flung backwards by the impact. She landed with a heavy thud on the ground, the arrow sticking out her back by several inches.

Friar Pasquerel came running. “Joan! Are you all right?”

She clutched at the wound tightly. “It has happened as I told you, Father.” To anyone else, her voice would have sounded remarkably steady for someone who had just been wounded by an arrow, but Tikki detected the almost imperceptible wobble that meant Joan was trying to hold back tears. “I need this to be tended…” She broke off, and now she was crying. The sound was heartbreaking.

I'm so sorry, Joan, Tikki silently apologized to her charge.

Several other soldiers had come to Joan's side once they had realized she had been wounded. Among them was Jean de Metz, who took charge with Friar Pasquerel. “We need to move her. She cannot be tended to here. Gently,” he urged when the others went to pick her up. “We must avoid disturbing the injury.”

The soldiers did as he instructed, and Joan was carried off the battlefield. They seemed to be at a loss as to how to remedy the issue, though.

“Perhaps we could cast a charm,” one of them suggested, after several minutes of deliberating had gotten them nowhere. There was a general murmur of agreement.

Joan jerked in horror at that, and would have sat up immediately if Jean de Metz hadn't restrained her from doing so. “I would rather die than do something which I know to be a sin, or to be against God's will,” she said sharply.

“You heard her,” Jean de Metz said when the soldiers hesitated. “No charms.”

“You may treat it by other means,” Joan added.

“We will have to remove the arrow,” Jean warned her.

“Do it.”

He looked down at Joan with something that might have been pity. “It will be very painful for you. Wouldn't you prefer this to be done in Orleans?”

Joan attempted to sit up again, and was forced down a second time by Jean. “My men are fighting the godons, and I must return to them today. If we return to Orleans, I will not be allowed to go back to my men. You know this. Do it now.”

Jean sighed. The look he gave her was not unaffectionate, though. “Very well, la Pucelle. We will do it here.” To one of the other soldiers, he said, “Go to the camp and fetch cotton, olive oil, and bacon fat. We'll need to stop the bleeding once the arrow is removed.”

The soldier rushed off to do as he had been told. While they waited for him to return, Friar Pasquerel held Joan's hand and helped her to breathe through the pain. The desired materials were brought after about half an hour's wait, with a breathless apology for the delay. Only then was Joan allowed to sit up.

“Here,” Jean said, offering her a glove. “You'll want to bite down on this.” Joan allowed him to place the glove in her mouth, and braced herself with her fingers dug into the ground. He and Friar Pasquerel each grabbed one side of the arrow. At a nod from the friar, Jean snapped the head off the arrow. Joan screamed into the glove.

“You'll be all right, child,” Friar Pasquerel promised, smoothing Joan's hair away from her face where it had begun to stick from sweat. “Worry not.” Joan whimpered, but nodded her assent. Her moment of peace was short-lived as he pulled the shaft out the way it had come. The scream this time was much more prolonged.

Once the arrow was out, they had to act fast. Her wound was bleeding now at an alarming rate. The silver of the armor was already red, its surface slick by the time they managed to move the plates away to stuff the wound. Joan's screams died down to quiet sobbing. A couple of the soldiers looking on suddenly turned their heads, as if trying to find something they couldn't see. Tikki wondered if Joan's face had taken on its rapturous expression, and if so, if one of her saints was comforting her. Cotton was stuffed into the wound first, and then the bacon fat and olive oil were mixed together and applied to the surface. If she hadn't been inside the Miraculous, Tikki would have grimaced. She'd seen a lot of different medical techniques over the years for dressing wounds, but this was definitely one of the grosser ones.

“This is only temporary,” Jean cautioned her as they finished. “When we return to Orleans tonight, you will still have to have the wound dressed properly.”

“I understand,” Joan assured him. She probably would have tried to stand up then if he hadn't held her down. “But for the time being, I must return to my men. I cannot fulfill my mission by lying here like a cripple.”

“Your men are still fighting,” Jean said. “The commanders have not ceased their assault on account of your injury. Can you not hear them?” He fell silent, long enough for the echoing clangs and crashes of the battle to reach their ears. Joan relaxed marginally at the sound. “You must rest. Once you have recovered, you may rejoin your men.”

Joan sighed quietly, but didn't argue. She probably didn't have the strength to protest anymore. “Very well, Sir de Metz. I will rest. But I will return to my men by sundown.”

The group took that as a sign that she was willing to return at least to the camp, if not to Orleans. Rather than permit her to walk, they insisted on carrying her the whole way, “as a precaution,” Friar Pasquerel explained to her. The instant they turned their backs to fetch chain mail that Joan could use in place of her plate armor (which was far too heavy for her to use now, given her injury), Tikki released her transformation and hid under Joan's breastplate.

“I'm sorry, Tikki,” Joan whispered to her as the men continued their hunt for Joan-sized chain mail. She stuck her finger under her breastplate, and rubbed the top of Tikki's head when she rose to meet it. “I must have given you a terrible fright today.”

“I ought to be the one apologizing,” Tikki whispered back. “I was supposed to protect you today, and I failed.” Seeing her charge's face for the first time since before dawn, and seeing how red and sweaty she was, the still-glimmering tracks where her tears had fallen, Tikki's heart ached with guilt. Joan was still so young. Still a child, in so many ways. She did not deserve to be sitting here in a war camp with her shoulder stuffed full of bloody cotton. Tikki felt even worse when Joan smiled at her.

“You did not fail,” she insisted. “You have protected me so well, Tikki. Just think, perhaps if I had not been granted the use of your armor, the arrow could have pierced straight through the plates rather than between them. It could have pierced my throat, or my heart. Then I surely would have died today.” The sound of someone running in armor drew near, and Joan hurriedly looked up and away.

“Here, la Pucelle. This can replace your armor until your wound has healed.”

There was a long series of rattling clinks, which Tikki presumed was the chain mail being dropped into Joan's hands. “Thank you, sir. Might I have privacy while I put it on?”

“Of course. Friar Pasquerel is waiting for you outside once you have finished.”

As soon as the soldier was gone, Joan gestured to Tikki that she could come out of hiding. Tikki flew up and out. “Please don't talk about the possibility of you dying, Joan. That's a horrible thing to think about.”

Joan was already occupied with removing her armor, wincing when she used her injured side without thinking. Tikki rushed to help her with the more difficult pieces as best she could. “We are dust, Tikki, and to dust we shall return. I am no different than any other mortal man on the battlefield.”

“But you are different,” Tikki protested. “You're here because of your mission, aren't you? I would say that that is very different from any of the other soldiers here.”

Joan's smile took on a wry curve. “My mission does not make me immortal.”

She went to Friar Pasquerel and asked him to hear her confession before allowing herself any rest, and even then, she only rested for a few minutes. There was a moment of minor panic when she realized her banner had not been brought to the camp with her, which subsided when she was told her squire had been given charge of it. When sundown began to draw near, she requested that one of the men bring her a horse. She was going back to the battlefield.

“You'll have to hide under the mail, I'm afraid,” she said to Tikki. “I apologize if it's uncomfortable for you in any way.”

“I can provide you with chain mail armor,” Tikki pointed out. “Your transformation doesn't have to be plate armor. And then you won't have to worry about keeping me hidden.”

Joan looked surprised. That must not have occurred to her. Perhaps she had assumed the transformation could only take a single form. “That would be much easier,” she admitted. “Tikki, transform me.”

She and the others ran into Dunois on their way back to the battlefield. “You may as well return to the camp,” Dunois told them. “I was just on my way to inform you, la Pucelle, that the commanders have decided to pull back for the night. We have achieved nothing today.”

When Joan replied, her voice was terse. “Return to the commanders and tell them to wait a little longer. I will join them shortly.” She turned to Jean de Metz. “Help me to mount my horse. I must pray, alone.” Jean did as he was told. As soon as she was on her horse, Joan steered herself away from the group, towards a nearby vineyard.

She didn't pray for long. Maybe ten minutes at most, which for Joan was extremely brief. Tikki, knowing how much Joan valued her privacy during prayer, occupied herself with mental preparation for rejoining the fight.

The men, except for Dunois, were waiting right where Joan had left them when she returned. Dunois had presumably gone back to the battlefield to relay her earlier message. “My standard,” she said to Friar Pasquerel. “Where is it? I was told my squire had charge of it.”

“Dunois informed us it has been given to le Basque, so that the forces might see it and not lose hope,” he answered.

Joan stirred her horse to a canter. “I must retrieve it. Come! We return to the battle now!”

Once they reached the battlefield, it didn't take more than perhaps a minute for her to locate her banner. A bit of a tug-of-war ensued between her and the soldier referred to as le Basque, who apparently didn't realize that it was la Pucelle who was trying to take the banner from him. She eventually succeeded, and positioned herself at the top of the trench before the earthwork with her standard lifted high once more. Disbelieving (and rather dismayed) cries could be heard from the English atop the fortress. They must have presumed she was dead, Tikki realized. Joan had been holding the banner up for only a few seconds at most when the wind abruptly changed, and the standard began to blow in the direction of Les Tourelles.

“Our sign from God,” Joan murmured to Tikki. Out loud to her army, she shouted, “All is yours; enter!”

It was like the first day at the fortress of Saint Loup all over again. All at once, the French overran the earthwork, the English's defenses crumpling despite having held strong the whole day. Joan rode down to join her army in the fight, Friar Pasquerel at her side. Though she didn't draw her sword, she used the butt of her standard to club Englishmen in the head when necessary, which worked surprisingly well.

The tower side of Les Tourelles didn't seem to be faring much better for the English—the drawbridge was coming down, presumably so the men there could make an escape to the earthwork. For the Englishmen's sake, Tikki hoped none of them tried it. A fisherman from Orleans had been appointed the previous day to set his boat ablaze and beach it beneath the drawbridge if it were to come down. If one had been able to peer through the chaos taking place on the earthwork, they would have been able to spot the fisherman right this moment doing as he had been instructed. Almost as soon as the drawbridge was fully dropped, thick smoke began to rise.

Joan plowed her way through the English forces in the direction of the drawbridge. Wondering why, Tikki belatedly remembered that Glasdale had been positioned in the towers. Joan was after a surrender.

An English soldier attempted to yank Joan down from her horse; she turned on him and dealt him a sharp blow with her standard. He let go in favor of clutching his shoulder where she had struck him. She turned her horse back towards the drawbridge and continued on her way. Friar Pasquerel had to sidestep the now-stumbling soldier to follow.

She stopped short at the edge of the earthwork. A moment later, Tikki and Friar Pasquerel could see why: there were figures visible through the smoke on the drawbridge, making an attempt to run across despite the flames licking at the timber.

“Glasdale, Glasdale, submit, submit to the King of Heaven!” Joan shouted to the figures, her voice breaking in desperation. Tikki wasn't sure how Joan was able to recognize Glasdale from that distance, let alone through all the smoke, but she knew Joan well enough to know that if she believed one of the men to be Glasdale, then it was Glasdale. “You called me a whore, but I have great pity for the souls of your people and yourself.”

Perhaps if he had had more time to consider, Glasdale would have submitted. But the words were hardly out of Joan's mouth when, in one great smoky whoosh, the drawbridge collapsed into the river. Glasdale and the others floated for only a moment before their armor pulled them under. Joan let out a loud, ragged cry of despair.

As the French behind her destroyed what was left of the English troops and victory cries began to rise from their ranks, Joan buried her face in her hands and wept.

She spoke little for the rest of the night during the proper dressing of her wound, while the rest of Orleans was celebrating with cheers and songs of praise to God. Though she smiled when spoken to, and seemed genuinely happy for their victory, she was obviously still distraught over what had happened to Glasdale and the others who had been with him. She ate only four pieces of bread before going to bed. Tikki tried to offer her comfort by snuggling close, but she wasn't sure how much it helped.

The next day, Joan was informed that the English were lining their forces up outside of Orleans—what was left of them, anyway. Her commanders, and her army, were already waiting for her at the city gates. Joan hastily threw on the chain mail she had been provided and rode out to join them. For an hour, the two armies faced one another, neither one making a move to initiate another battle. The French probably would have liked to attack, but Joan barked out an order for them to stay put. Then, slowly, very slowly, the English forces turned and began to retreat, making their way in the direction of far-off Meung-sur-Loire.

Some of the French attempted to pursue them, but Joan held up her hand to signal a halt. “In God's name, they are going; let them leave, and let us go give thanks to God and not pursue them any further, for it's Sunday.” With that, she turned her horse back towards Orleans. Her commanders followed, giving the army no choice but to obey her orders.

The rejoicing in Orleans that day was even greater than it had been the day before. A grand procession was made through the city, and the Mass was filled with hymns of praise and thanksgiving. Joan scarcely had a moment to herself, what with all of the crowds who wanted to speak with her, to thank her, even just to touch her garments. A few women attempted to kiss her hand, but Joan withdrew from their touch with a gentle admonition to give their thanks instead to God. It wasn't until supper time that the attention died down enough that she could spend time with her companions, and even then, people kept bursting into the room and interrupting every few minutes. By the time it came for her to prepare for bed, Joan looked exhausted.

“Joan.”

She halted on the way up the stairs and turned to face the owner of the voice. “Yes, Sir de Metz?” Hidden inside her doublet, Tikki sighed in affectionate exasperation. Leave it to Joan to engage in conversation even when she was practically ready to fall asleep on her feet.

“You really did it,” Jean said, and there was no surprise in his voice. Only a reverent wonder. “More than ever, I find myself believing that you are truly sent from God. Already your mission is halfway completed. All that's left for us to do is clear the way to Rheims, and the dauphin will be crowned just as you said.”

Joan hesitated, then went back down the stairs to join him. “There is still much for me to do,” she assured him. “My mandate is to have my dauphin crowned king, but my mission will continue after that is done.” She clapped him on the shoulder. “I'm afraid you and my good commanders will have to remain in my company for quite some time.”

Jean laughed. “I would not have it any other way, la Pucelle. You do us all good. You know what they're calling you now, don't you? The Maid of Orleans. You're their hero.”

Joan laughed as well, but only for a moment. “They ought to consider God their hero, not me. I am—” There was a long pause. Curious, Tikki peeked out from under the doublet to see what was going on, and saw that Joan was looking intently at a silver ring on Jean's hand.

That ring was familiar.

“Sir de Metz,” Joan said. “That's a curious ring. I don't believe I remember you having that when we first met.”

Jean twisted the ring around. “A gift,” he said with a knowing smile. “From an unknown benefactor. It seems there are a lot of them around these days.” He gestured towards Joan's earrings, and gave her a nod of farewell. “I should let you get your rest. Good night, Joan.”

Joan seemed too thunderstruck to say anything in reply as he departed. She glanced down at Tikki, her eyes wide. Tikki, equally shocked, nodded.

Jean de Metz had Plagg's Miraculous.

#drabble #mbb2k17 #miraculous ladybug #miraculous fanfic #la pucelle et la coccinelle

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